


His to Defend

by Lee_Whimsy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Boromir Lives, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28745943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lee_Whimsy/pseuds/Lee_Whimsy
Summary: Aragorn had grown accustomed to leaning on Boromir after battles. He was always there: a steady, familiar presence on the long road from Parth Galen to the towers of Minas Tirith, and then to the Black Gate beyond.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 100





	His to Defend

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't know what to tell you. Some nights you start thinking about Boromir of Gondor, and then you look up four hours later and you've written your first complete fic in half a decade. I'm as shocked as anyone.

EDORAS

Even in Edoras, where Théoden had taken him in and Wormtongue had locked him away—where Théodred, with his wild laugh and hair the color of straw, had been laid down cold and silent into the dirt—Éomer could not sleep.

A few hours before dawn, he was settled down on the steps of Meduseld, smoking, steadfastly refusing to shiver in the bitter air. For a time, he amused himself by watching shadows drift, waver, and fall apart beneath the moonlight. If there was anyone else about, they kept their distance, so Éomer let himself fall into quiet reverie. He stretched out his legs and leaned back like a little boy, staring up at the few errant stars that gleamed between the clouds. How many nights had he and Théodred spent beneath those same skies, far from home, unblooded and wild on the grassy downs? How many mornings had they spent tangled in bed, fighting over blankets and giving each other black eyes with jabs from sharp elbows?

Éomer remembered his younger self, but he could not believe that bright laughing boy was his mother’s son. He could not imagine what it would be like to live so careless and free, to fight with wooden swords and to sleep with his cousin’s arms wrapped around him, all innocence; to play games with his sister while their uncle was in council with the marshals.

Behind him, the doors creaked open. Éomer stirred from his reverie and sat upright, hand dropping to the knife at his belt. His sword, he remembered belatedly, was lying useless by his bed. But he soon recognized the newcomers even in the gloom of clouds and gray light, and he relaxed.

“What keeps the lords of Gondor from their beds at such an hour?” he said.

“We might ask the same of the son of Rohan,” said Boromir, with no particular challenge in his voice. He was wearing borrowed clothes, and carried neither shield nor sword, but he wore his station well. There was no mistaking his easy confidence. Aragorn stood behind him. He was forever in the shadows, it seemed. He never stood with his face toward the light.

 _Even the morning sun of the downs could not touch him_ , Éomer thought, with an idleness he would have dismissed at any other time. _He does not let it._

But he let Boromir touch him willingly enough. When Éomer nodded an invitation, they sat down on the steps beside him, and Boromir carelessly slung an arm around Aragorn's shoulders. They looked like two old campaigners, grown so used to living out of each other’s packs and inside each other’s lives that they scarcely noticed what belonged to whom.

Had they forgotten that they were rivals to the throne of Gondor? They could have gone to war with each other as easily as Sauron in the east, but instead Boromir murmured something about first and second breakfasts, and Aragorn’s eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“We could not sleep,” Boromir said, by way of explanation, when he turned toward Éomer. “So soon after a battle.”

Éomer surprised himself by saying: “My cousin and I were always the same.”

“King Théoden’s son?” Boromir asked.

Éomer kept his eyes fixed on the sky. “We grew up together,” he said. “He died at the Fords of Isen.”

Boromir was too much a soldier to apologize. “My younger brother met him once, I think,” he said instead. “Many years ago. He told me that it was a joy to see him on horseback.”

Éomer nodded once, stiffly, and returned his attention to his pipe. Other men might have taken his silence as a slight, but Boromir only turned back to Aragorn, and they fell into a quiet conversation. They were arguing, or so it seemed to Éomer, but eventually Aragorn relented, and leaned his head back onto Boromir’s shoulder with a small sigh.

Éomer found himself transfixed by that small gesture. So recently come from the battle at Helm's Deep, he couldn't see a bare throat without thinking of a neck slashed from side to side, a head half-split from its body. Aragorn's eyes were closed, and he was weaponless, as far as Éomer could tell. Boromir was keeping watch for both of them. It was a gesture of such naked trust that Éomer found himself suddenly and absurdly jealous.

He missed Théodred so much that for a moment it was difficult to breathe.

“You will see,” Boromir was saying to Aragorn, his voice low. “I will make him understand.”

Aragorn sounded resigned, and perhaps a little amused. “Your father will be disappointed. He did not send you all the way to Imladris to come back with a ragged soldier from the North.”

“He sent me to save the White City,” Boromir said. “You and I will see it safe. And then—” he shrugged, and fell silent.

“And then,” Aragorn agreed. He opened his eyes for a moment, squinting suspiciously of the first dim light of dawn. But morning was still a long way away, and he was hidden in the long shadows of Meduseld, a quiet shade at Boromir’s side.

Even in Edoras, the dead were a dull ache in Éomer’s chest.

But he found that he was glad to have some company.

* * *

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

“He fought his way to the city gates without a scratch,” Imrahil said, leaning up against the arch of the doorway. He was still in full armor, blood drying on his face and hands. “And now that he is safe inside, he seems determined to kill himself for the sake of men less fortunate.”

Éomer sat nearby, leaning against the most comfortable piece of stone wall he could find. He had not slept since Dunharrow, but he refused to leave Aragorn unguarded inside the walls of Minas Tirith. Rumors were already racing through the ruined city. He had been among the wounded for long hours now, and folk were whispering that he could bring even the dead back to life. The Steward had mourned for his sons, Lord Boromir and Lord Faramir both, and yet—

And yet.

“He is in good hands,” Éomer said, his voice rough with overuse, when he realized that Imrahil was waiting for him to speak. “I would dog his steps myself and bid him rest, but your nephew stands a better chance.”

Imrahil looked at him strangely. “Boromir has done well by Lord Aragorn, then?”

There was a murmur of conversation from beyond the door, and then the sweet scent of kingsfoil filled the air. Éomer and Imrahil both breathed deep, in sudden unison. For the first time since he’d found his sister on the battlefield, Éomer remembered that it was good to be alive.

“No man better,” he said. “I wish you had seen them as I first did, coming up across the plains like something out of the old stories. A prince of elves and a dwarf-lord and two men—both of them half dead and too proud to admit it.”

“Half dead?”

“Lord Boromir was protecting the halflings. He was shot. But Aragorn bid him live, and so he did.” Éomer shrugged, and immediately winced as the muscles in his back and shoulders pulled sharply in protest. “I've never seen one without the other. My uncle esteemed them much the same.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Imrahil said. He sounded thoughtful. “Boromir is a fearless lord, and a good son to his father. But he is proud. Too proud to bow to anyone who claimed to be his king, I would have thought.”

Aches and pains forgotten, Éomer sat up straight, his lips pressed tight.

“Rightfully claimed, I am convinced,” said Imrahil, hurriedly. “But the Stewards have reigned in Minas Tirith since Eärnur was lost to Minas Morgul, and that was a thousand years ago. How many years must a single family rule before they can call themselves kings?”

Éomer had no answer to that. “They argue often enough,” he admitted. “But no more than any two great lords will.”

“Perhaps I misjudge him,” Imrahil said. “Or perhaps he has changed. It is a long road from the White City to Rivendell.”

“And still a longer one to come back again,” said Boromir, who just then had appeared in the arched doorway behind the prince of Dol Amroth. He nodded to each of them in turn. “Uncle. King Éomer.”

Éomer struggled to his feet. He was not ready to be _King Éomer_. Not here, at least. Not dragging himself half-dead through the stones of a strange city, with Théoden's body barely cold.

“I would have no titles between us,” he said. “We have been brothers since we fought at the gates of the Hornburg.”

Boromir clasped his proffered arm. “Then come, brother. We have another battle to fight. If Aragorn does not leave of his own accord, we must drag him away from his patients by force. He can do no more tonight.”

“I will come quietly.” Aragorn’s voice drifted out from inside the healers’ makeshift ward. “Even I know when I am overmastered.”

There was a sudden crash, and a clamor of alarm, and Boromir was back inside the ward before the echoes had died against the stone.

“I told you,” Boromir was saying, when he reappeared with Aragorn leaning heavily against his side. “After Helm’s Deep, and when we took the ships at Pelargir, and after you tended to Faramir and the lady Éowyn. You must rest. You cannot save every life in Minas Tirith.”

“They are our people,” Aragorn said, “and I swore—”

Boromir wrapped his arm around Aragorn’s shoulders to steady him. “I know. But you will serve best when you're not stumbling over your own feet. Let the healers do their work. I've sent servants to prepare quarters for you.”

“I should not sleep in the city,” Aragorn said. “Your lords will complain, and they would have the right of it.”

Boromir sighed. “Another night in a muddy field,” he said. “As you wish, O king.”

“You at least must stay,” Imrahil said to Boromir. “Denethor is dead. You are the Steward now.”

“No,” Boromir said, flatly. “I will stay with Aragorn.”

Neither of them spoke of Faramir, but Imrahil must have seen that it was pointless to protest, and soon matters were more or less settled. Imrahil would take charge of the city. The lords of the Mark and the Dúnedain would command the armies at its gates.

By the time the three of them finally made it back to the Pelennor, to see to their soldiers and to sleep, Éomer was weary beyond his power to describe. But when the sun rose over their camp the next morning, it was the first dawn the city had seen in many long days. And that was something.

* * *

THE PELENNOR

When Aragorn woke, it was to the sudden knowledge that something was wrong. He had fallen asleep moments after arriving in his tent, too exhausted even to wash his bloody hands or strip out of his filthy, battle-stained clothes. But he clearly remembered that Boromir had been sprawled out beside him, close enough to touch.

Now he was gone.

When Aragorn sat up, slowly and stiffly, he saw that Boromir had not gone far; he was on the other side of the cramped tent, his shoulders hunched, his head in his hands. But when he looked over at Aragorn, it was with such a terrible expression on his face that Aragorn was afraid for him.

“My father,” he said, before Aragorn could ask. “I cannot close my eyes without seeing it. My own father, and he sent his son out to the slaughter. He would have burned—and Faramir, he—”

His face contorted, and with a muffled curse he ducked outside the tent, brushing past the startled guards that Éomer had ordered to keep watch. Without hesitation, Aragorn clambered to his feet and followed him out into the cold, heavy air.

The sun was still low in the sky, the horizon spilling over. The edges of the clouds glowed pink and red. The city loomed over them, wreathed in haze and smoke.

Boromir took a few deep breaths and straightened his shoulders. “My father would have burned him alive,” he said. He bit off each word with deadly precision. “Faramir was lying on a pyre, half-dead already, and where was I to protect him?”

When Aragorn took Boromir's hand, he could feel it trembling.

“How could you have known? Gandalf said that Lord Denethor’s sickness was long and silent. No one knew the cause of it.”

Boromir gave no sign that he'd heard. “My father is not a kind man,” he said. “But he was honorable, and noble. He loved the city. He loved us. How could he do it?”

Aragorn ached for him. He had never wished Denethor dead. He had never wished to see Boromir fatherless and grieving before the City of Kings. With Boromir to intercede for him, Denethor might have been persuaded of his claim, in time. The soldiers of Minas Tirith would have followed their captain, and there were still a handful of lords and nobles who had been alive when Thorongil served under Lord Ecthelion.

“I do not doubt that he loved you,” he said. “I do not think that anyone who knew you could do otherwise, a father least of all. But men driven to despair can do terrible things.”

Boromir only stared blankly up at the ruined walls of Minas Tirith. Most of the fires had already been put out, but a few still burned, smoke and ashes crackling up into the gray sky. The wind tugged at the banners of the Stewards and of Dol Amroth, raised high over the citadel, and the white cliffs of Mindolluin towered above it all, untouched by the fighting that had raged in the city below: unstained with the blood that had spilled over the stones of Rath Dínen.

“Come and sleep a little while longer,” Aragorn said at last. “Then we will see to the defenses.”

He took Boromir by the arm, and Boromir—the proud son of Gondor, the great captain of men—suffered himself to be led.

* * *

THE BLACK GATE

It was strange, the things that endured.

In the years after the war, Aragorn's memories of the battle at the Black Gate faded and softened. He told the story so many times that it no longer felt entirely real. He told it to Arwen, to his brothers, to Elrond. To ambassadors and foreign dignitaries, to historians with ink-stained fingers, to poets and bards. To his son and daughters. At some point in all that telling, it had ceased to be a thing that belonged to him.

But one thing, at least, he never told anyone. One thing he kept for himself.

He was lying in the muck and blood of the battlefield. He couldn't breathe, and for the first time in his life he was certain that he was dying. Something was crushing him. He was scrabbling for his sword, for a knife, for anything that his hands could grasp.

In the distance, or perhaps only inches away, over the dizzying noise of the battle, he could hear someone screaming his name.

There was a wrench of pain. Sudden darkness. Quiet.

And then—

And then there was someone at this side, hauling him up out of the dirt. There was someone ordering him to breathe. To live.

Aragorn knew that voice.

And he obeyed.

* * *

PARTH GALEN

Boromir told them to leave him behind. He would only slow them down, he said. They would have to run swift and sure to outpace the orcs that had taken Merry and Pippin.

“I will not leave you half-dead and hobbling along the riverbank,” Aragorn said, with the voice of a man who had once led armies, and would soon lead them again. “We will come to Minas Tirith together. Do you doubt me?”

Boromir was silent for a long time. When he spoke again he was entirely changed. He felt dazed, as if he had just seen the world rearrange itself around him into some new and wondrous form. He thought perhaps this was how men felt when they were new-married, or faced for the first time with a newborn child. He'd known something like it once before in his life, as a little boy: the first time he'd looked down from the seventh circle of Minas Tirith with the knowledge that the city, and everything in it, was his to defend.

“I do not doubt you,” he said. “I will be by your side forever.”

He said it quite simply, but they both knew that it was an oath, and Aragorn took his hand as solemnly as if they were standing in armor before the high throne of Gondor.

“I am glad of it,” said Aragorn. “I will not leave you behind.”

And that was that, for they were both men of their word.


End file.
